Always, for nearly ten years now, when in a room with a templar Derrica has always felt the kneejerk, panicky flutter of fear high in her throat. The calculation of proximity to a dangerous thing, someone who could do harm to her if they cared to.

Emerging from the far side of the desk to occupy the seat across from him is as much in defiance of that fear as it is about making a clear choice to meet him where he sits. To leave whatever small fragment of leverage the desk affords her to the side.

"I wanted to ask you about lyrium. We needn't speak of you in particular, but I want to try to understand what it is to a templar, before I propose something to you and see if you think it would be something worth pursuing."